The Farmer Calls For The Migrant.
La pisca los busca,
y la siguen.
They follow the crops like hungry sheep,
who seek greener pastures, only they
must feed first the shepherds
with the labor of their hands
and wash the feet of the patrón, with the sweat of their brow.
They face the cold and dampness of the early morn,
no reluctance in their hastened steps.
The midday sun lashes them with rays of heat
that roasts them to a copper brown
The brown that some in town resent.
The essential worker that picks from dawn to dusk.
Some sleep in rundown shacks approved by
USDA, or slumlord hovels, all they can afford.
They exist, but their sacrifice, is a non-existent thought to the squeezer of the melon or watermelon thumper.
A penny a pound to face the dangers of the field.
Five pair of hands, five sets of legs, five aching backs.
Mother, father, sister and brothers,
it takes a family to make ends meet.
Some must choose, to feed the belly or make the rent.
Vacations are for gringos, and Their children.
Some migrants get to stay,
some run away when the migra shouts,
“Show me your papers.” and “Como te llamas?”
In a poetic refrain, we feel the pain of Jesus, Maria y Jose,
but they are invisible,
to the buyer of the apple or the peach, those who carefully select from the abundant shelves
of uptown grocers,
the fruits of the migrant’s labor.
